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A DRUMLIN Woodchuck Poem

A DRUMLIN Woodchuck Poem By Robert Frost,

One tiling has a shelvIng bank,
Another a rotting plank,
To gIve It COZIer skIes,
And make up for its lack of size.

My own strategic retreat
Is where two rocks almost meet,
And still more secure and snug,
A two-door burrow I dug.

With those in mind at my back
I can sit forth exposed to attack
As one who shrewdly pretends
That he and the world are fnends.

All we who prefer to live
Have a httle whIstle we give,
And flash, at the least alarnl
We dive down under the farm.

We allow some time for guile
And don’t come out for a while
Either to eat or drink.
We take occasion to think.

And if after the hunt goes past
And the double-barreled blast
(LIke war and pestilence
And the loss of common sense),

If I can with confidence say
That still for another day,
Or even another year,
I wIll be there for you, my dear,

It \vill be because, though small
As measured agaInst the All,
I have been so instinctIvely thorough
About my crevice and burrow.

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